


Truce

by Laylah



Category: Last Remnant
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Video Game Mechanics, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have no war band at your gates," Torgal murmurs. "Lay down your blades."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truce

There shouldn't have been Spiritlords in the Vale of the Gods in the first place, but that's little consolation now. Torgal raises his swords to block the swipe of heavy claws, grunting with the effort. The miasma of the Spiritlord's curse hangs thick over his squad; they were the first into the fray and they're paying for it now.

"Keep them off balance, and crush them!" he calls to his soldiers. He must show faith in them; their morale must not fall if they're to have decent odds here. He reaches into himself for the well of power that will fuel the cutting strikes of the Four Winds art -- and instead of power, a wave of sickness overtakes him, the tang of the curse in the back of his throat and black spots swimming in front of his eyes. He struggles against it, but cannot stop himself: he crumples into the shallow water of the stream bed as everything goes dark.

The next thing he hears is a familiar war howl -- he opens his eyes to see one of the qsiti in Allan's squad leaning over him, and he can smell the crushed green scent of restorative herbs. Allan has taken his place holding the Spiritlord's attention, longswords flashing as he spits and snarls.

Torgal staggers to his feet. "This chance won't be wasted," he promises.

Allan barks a short laugh. "That would be a change," he says, but as Torgal steps up beside him to renew the attack, he'd swear he can smell something more like relief than bitterness in Allan's battle-musk.

With the curse spent, defeating a Spiritlord is only a matter of time -- and little time, at that, with two sovani leading the charge. On the far side of the vale, Lord David leads other troops to fend off a second of the monstrous birds; Torgal can't spare much attention to worry about him, but Blocter's enthusiastic cheering leaves little doubt as to his state.

The Spiritlord's wings drag, its neck snaking in a futile threat display; its blood is a bright tang in the air. "Finish it," Torgal says.

Allan laughs. "Gladly," he says, and his next strike severs the Spiritlord's spine.

The bird comes crashing down, water splashing over all of them as it collapses; Torgal flicks his ears in annoyance, but truly he's distracted. He takes a breath, trying to catch another hint of that scent he'd thought he detected a moment ago -- but the battlefield is a confusion of competing smells, blood and magic and stream-water and the battle lust of a dozen soldiers, and it won't come clear. Allan has already turned away from him, eager to claim his share of the kill.

In all the years they fought together, Allan was never quick to rouse a fallen comrade. _Why would I aid anyone too weak to keep on his feet?_ he snarled, the one time Torgal reproached him for it, back in the Syndicate days.

Why, indeed?

They make camp for the night on one of the flat rock shelves that protrude above the Vale's central stream. Tomorrow they should reach the far end of the valley, but pressing on into the dark is poor strategy with a mixed-race war band; mitra are ill prepared for the dark, and yama little better. When the tents are pitched and the fires lit, Torgal finds Rush at his side.

"Is something bugging Allan?" Rush asks. He smiles. "More than usual, I mean."

"Hard to say," Torgal answers. Allan has set up his tent at the farthest edge of the camp, but that's no surprise; he's adjusting poorly to traveling in mixed company.

Rush nods. "You think I should go talk to him?"

"No," Torgal says. "You may have paid his fee, but that doesn't mean he'll want to speak with you." He considers for a moment. "I will speak with him."

"That's probably good," Rush says. "You guys have some stuff work out still, huh?"

Torgal's ears swivel, commentary on just how much he wants to be counseled on his personal affairs by a mitra scarcely old enough to bear arms without embarrassing himself, but he keeps his tone civil when he says, "Indeed."

Rush smiles. "Great," he says. "I'll leave you to it, then." He heads off toward the next tent -- making his rounds, it seems, doing his own part for morale. He is...a better help to Lord David than Torgal would have expected, at the least.

Allan has lit no fire; when one is gifted with both fur and keen sight in the dark, there is rarely a need for flame. He has the flap rolled back, but Torgal isn't naive enough to think that's a welcome -- likely it's for the moonlight and nothing more.

He coughs. "Well met, cousin," he says.

"It's a little late for you to play the traditionalist, isn't it?" Allan asks. He comes to the tent's entrance, which makes it easier for Torgal to see him but also bars him from coming in.

Torgal takes a deep breath. Here, without all the distractions of the battlefield, or the choking mask of Royotia's coal fires, he can finally truly catch the fullness of Allan's scent.

The richness of it stuns him into silence for a moment. Eight decades among mitra, and he has learned to read the shapes of their faces, but in turn he has forgotten the nuance of a sovani's scent. Mitra communicate coarsely through their scent -- lust, fear, weakness -- yama and qsiti almost not at all, but Allan...there's a heavy complexity to it, and Torgal opens his mouth to better taste the air. Bitterness, sharp and birght, just at the fore edge of the scent. Pride, warm and golden. A faint sour note of fear that lodges beneath Torgal's tongue. And _craving_, dark and blood-rich as the choicest portion ever taken from a kill.

A sovani can lie with his scent, but it isn't easy: he must be able to counterfeit emotions well enough to fool his own body, and that is no easy task. Allan will be able to smell Torgal's regret and his longing, his hunger, without any trouble.

"Not too late, perhaps," Torgal says. "Didn't you say that eighty years was nothing for us?"

Allan growls amusement. "You stink," he says. "Regret doesn't suit you."

"Tell me what you'd prefer," Torgal says.

Allan's scent answers, hunger so rich that Torgal growls reflexively. "You know my answer."

"Pretend my years among mitra have made me soft," Torgal says. "Do you invite me to stay, or do I leave you be?"

"You're no fun at all," Allan says, but only in words. He shifts back into the dark of his tent. "Welcome to my hearth, cousin. Such as it is."

Torgal ducks into the tent and meets the touch as Allan reaches for him. All his limbs unwind, twining with Allan's, too close for combat: his hands find both sets of Allan's shoulders and hold on, and he rubs his cheek against Allan's in greeting. Allan's hands dig into his back, kneading against all the knots of tension that Torgal's mitra lovers haven't known how to find, and Torgal's throat tightens with the need to purr. "Well met, indeed," he says.

Allan stills. "Gloating?" he asks.

"I have no war band at your gates," Torgal murmurs. "Lay down your blades."

"Easy for you to say," Allan answers, but his fur smells sweet with pleasure. He stretches up to nip at Torgal's ear -- and the gesture bares his throat, so Torgal sets his teeth there for a moment, a reminder, then turns the bite to licking when Allan hisses. Tension bleeds out of him, and when they spill down onto the floor of the tent there is no clear aggressor. Torgal bathes Allan's throat and chest with slow swipes of his tongue, unfastening the laces and buckles of Allan's under-armor leathers. Allan reciprocates, grooming his ears, stripping away Athlum's uniform -- it's been _more_ than eighty years since the last time they lay together like this, neither armored, both vulnerable. By the time Torgal dissolved the Syndicate, they were no longer truly comrades.

And perhaps that wasn't entirely Allan's fault. Torgal remembers the furious heat of his musk, the trapped flex of strong arms when Torgal pinned him in the wake of their battles -- neither of them understood compromise then, did they?

Torgal rolls onto his back, pulling Allan on top of him, breathing in the fresh-breeze sharpness of Allan's surprise. "Not what you wanted?" he says.

Allan laughs, and nips at his throat. Even when they have the spirit, mitra don't have teeth like that. "You want me to believe you've changed?" he says.

"Trying to make you believe anything was always a waste of time," Torgal answers. He pushes one lower hand between them to find Allan's cock swelling free of the sheath. He rolls his hips to free his own, and traps them both with the roughness of his palm. Allan mewls, a thin, involuntary sound, and bites Torgal's shoulder as if that could erase his moment of weakness. Torgal rubs his face against Allan's shoulder as Allan ruts against him, and the air is thick with both of their musk now -- a heady, raw tangle of overlapping claims. The friction is the least of the pleasure: the growl in Allan's throat, the sharp prick of his claws, his four strong arms to grapple with Torgal's own -- a hundred leagues from any territory they ever held, this is still like coming home.

Torgal arches his back, instinct fighting the weight that pins him, and surrenders to climax -- his scent, his come, staining the fur of Allan's belly. Allan hisses, sharp and needy, holding on tighter. "You," he says, "ah -- don't you dare stop --" and he stiffens over Torgal before he's even finished the threat, mingling his heat with Torgal's own.

He buries his face in the hollow of Torgal's throat, but doesn't try to bite, so Torgal doesn't move away. After a few slow breaths, Allan starts to purr -- quietly, the sound wheezing and rattly, as if he's out of practice. Torgal purrs back, a lower note in counterpoint.

This hasn't truly resolved anything; speaking will probably still lead to arguments. Torgal is in no hurry for that, so he keeps his peace, and Allan seems content for now to do likewise. They wash each other, in no hurry, taking the time to be thorough. There is another tent that Torgal could use, on the other side of the army's camp, but Allan doesn't tell him to leave, so he doesn't. He curls up beside Allan instead, finding that he still remembers how to negotiate the tangle of their limbs. Allan's purr grows quieter, but doesn't completely cease until he's relaxed into sleep. It's a small victory, perhaps -- yet satisfying, for all that.


End file.
